


Hellish

by sparklingstone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season 4 Spoilers, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:17:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingstone/pseuds/sparklingstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had forgotten what it was like, not having the taste of blood in his mouth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellish

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really more of a Destiel shipper, but this just came to me and I had to stick with it.

Dean had forgotten what it was like, not having the taste of blood in his mouth. Even after Alistair had finished ripping him apart and he was made whole again, that awful copper tang always remained, where he had bitten his tongue or cheek open in pain.

 

It only got worse after his role was reversed and he started torturing those poor, depraved souls on the rack. Because then, it wasn’t his own blood he tasted. That blood, the blood of the guilty and the wretched, burned him like acid, leaving scars.

 

Except, of course, there were no scars, no proof at all of that forty year stint in hell- thirty on the rack, ten putting others on it. Castiel had made sure of that.

 

And Dean is okay now. At least that’s what he tells himself. If he tells himself long enough, he thinks, then surely sooner or later he will believe it, and if he believes it, then so will Sammy.   
Because Dean, under no circumstances, will let Sammy know about this.

 

It really, honestly, wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, except Sam had found out from Uriel, and because in that horrible moment of weakness Dean had spat out all his terrible secrets, had spilled his guts to his brother. And since then, Sam has kept an even closer watch on him than usual. He must know about the nightmares, but he’s never said anything. Or then again, maybe he doesn’t, because whenever Dean wakes himself in the night, screaming, the other bed is empty. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what Sam is doing at that time of night. So he ignores it, pretends he doesn’t notice. He hates that they have become “The Winchesters: a family of secrets.” 

 

Dean snorts wryly as he steps out of the too-hot shower. Yeah, he and Sam should have a heart-to-heart about all this, where they stay up real late in their pink pajamas and watch cheesy rom-coms and paint each others’ nails. He snorts again, imagining his little brother with pink nails. The shower had turned Dean’s skin a raw and angry pink. Not like nail polish.

 

So the nightmares may have been keeping him from sleeping, so what? It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it, after... All those souls on the rack...

 

Sam is on his stomach on top of the duvet, hands grasping the pillow tightly. Faint snores leave his open mouth every couple of seconds. Dean considers waking him for the shower, but it’s late, after midnight, the last hunt was tiring, and the hot water is all gone anyway. Sam would only complain at him. So instead he carefully unlaces Sam’s boots and pulls them off his feet, which are dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so long that Dean can’t even tuck him into the motel bed without waking him up. 

 

Before he turns off the lights, Dean brushes the hair off of Sam’s forehead, He tells himself it’s because it was getting in his eyes. “Silly Sam. You’ll be turning into a girl any day now.” A freakishly tall girl, with big muscles, but a girl nonetheless. Then he realizes that, no, Dean himself will be the one turning into the girl, because he’s the one doing things like brushing hair off of other people’s foreheads.

 

Dean hurriedly shuts off the light and gets into bed. But it’s a long time before he can fall asleep, so he watches the half of Sam’s face that he can see in the red light of the motel sign shining through the window. 

 

Dean is in Hell, and there it is, the taste of blood in his mouth. The rack beneath him is burning red hot into his back, which is already torn apart by the whip. And he is screaming; he doesn’t even know what hurts anymore, what part of him could possibly be left behind after this torture. And he’s screaming.

 

And then he’s whole again, but the blood is still there, in his mouth, and he wishes he could spit, but can’t summon the strength. But there is Alistair, approaching him with a cruel looking knife, and he’s asking: “Where should we start, Dean?” and then the blade is everywhere, slicing and cutting, somehow cutting more than flesh, cutting his soul too, and his entire being feels like it’s getting ripped apart. And all Dean wants is for it all to end. He’s screaming too, but he doesn’t realize what he’s saying until Alistair stops, a wicked smile on his face.

 

“Sam? But he’s not here, Dean. He’s not here because you chose to save him, remember? You’re here because of him.”

 

But that’s not right, because Dean can hear Sam’s voice calling him his name. He sounds urgent. But no, Sam can’t be here! Sammy can’t be in Hell.

 

And then the knife is back; it’s buried deep in his neck, and he is choking.

 

Strong arms are shaking him, and someone is still calling his name. Sammy! But he can still taste blood in his mouth; it didn’t go away this time. So this must be another one of Alistair’s tricks. This isn’t Sammy. Dean thinks he pushes the not-Sammy away, but he isn’t sure. All he knows is that he needs to get out of here, and he’ll do anything he can.

 

Sam watches hopelessly as his brother jerks awake. The screaming has stopped, thank God, but he’s twitching and shaking and his open eyes see him and yet don’t see him. Suddenly Dean’s   
arm comes out of nowhere and pushes on his face and his leg kicks out, and Sam goes crashing to the floor.

 

Dean’s legs are tangled in the bed sheets, but he ignores them and trips to his feet, but before he makes one more step to the door the not-Sammy’s arms are wrapped tightly around him, smothering and he can still taste the blood...

 

“No!”

 

“Dean, Dean!” Dean’s eyes are glazed over with fear and...pain too. He looks wild, feral, Sam thinks. Not like Dean. He holds him as tight as possible without crushing him, hoping to calm him. Make him come back to himself, but it only seems to make him more upset.

 

His brother is all flying limbs and blind attacks, so he lets him go, no matter how much it hurts to do so, more than the physical pain of Dean’s blows. But right now he needs to calm down,   
and Sam is obviously only worsening Dean’s distress.

 

So he lets Dean crawl into the corner of the room, watches as he curls up into a shaking ball, knees pressed against his forehead. 

 

After a few minutes Sam notices that his brother’s breathing is no longer the frantic ripping of air in and out of lungs, but has become slow and steady sobs. Sam doesn’t think that he’s ever seen Dean cry. Not like this, anyway. Not this terrible soul-crushing break down. Sam wonders if this is what it looks like to be broken, and if it might be somehow contagious, because he can start to feel the convulsions in his own chest and the lump in his throat that always preludes tears. 

 

Angrily he swipes his eyes and carefully, oh so carefully, slides closer on the carpet, puts his back against the wall, so he is sitting next to Dean. He can feel his palms getting rug burns when he twists around, but it doesn’t really register. 

 

Dean feels, rather than sees, the not-Sam move to sit next to him. He flinches, but it doesn’t move any closer. So he curls up a little tighter, can feel his own hands giving his legs bruises, but it’s nothing compared to the rack. Somewhere in his mind he realizes that this must be Alistair, disguised as his brother. So slowly, oh so slowly, he calms his sobs. The thought of any demon or even just anyone seeing him cry goes against his very nature, twisted and deformed as it is after the years he has been in Hell. 

 

And then he speaks. “I really thought I was out this time.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it jerk its head towards him. “What?”

 

“I get it, okay? I fucking get it. I’m trapped here forever. Just stop looking like him, you fucking son of a bitch. What do you want?” 

 

There is silence. Through the gap in his arms he can see it staring at him, comprehension filling its eyes and looking so much like Sammy that he’s not sure whether he wants to punch him or hug him.

 

An arm reaches out and he flinches, but doesn’t move away. He’ll be strong this time around. 

 

And then Sam is right in front of him, so close, his face is right there. And all he can see are his eyes, enormously large and staring right into his. They’re red rimmed and upset. 

 

“Dean. It’s me. You see this?” His hand reaches down and fingers the amulet around Dean’s neck, knuckles brushing against his chest. “I gave it to you for Christmas when we were just kids. I was going to give it to Dad, but I gave it to you instead. You...you never took it off, ever. I wore it every day when you were in Hell, so that I could keep part of you with me after you were gone. Tell me, if you were in Hell, why would you have it again?”

 

Dean stares at him, eyes wide, and feels another tear slip down his cheek. This... could it really? Sam’s hand is still fingering the amulet and simultaneously stroking his chest, and the memories come flooding back in a rush, of climbing out of the grave, of Castiel, of hugging Sammy desperately. 

 

“Sammy?” He whispers, voice cracked and raw. 

 

His brother just nods shakily, and Dean collapses. He falls sideways into his brother’s arms like he has no control of his own body anymore, and Sam’s arms slip immediately around him, holding him tight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though not all his doubts were assuaged, Dean wonders why he never let Sam hug him like this before. It was nice. It made him feel treasured. Precious. Even if it was a lie, he chose to let himself believe in that moment, to let Sam hold him, let Sam comfort him for once. And he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t think he could. 

 

Somewhere along the line they make it back to Sam’s bed; neither really remembers how, but Dean ends up sitting in between Sam’s legs, whose back is against the headboard. His hand is over Dean’s heart, and it’s so warm Dean thinks he might cry again just from that. Hell had been hot, but Alistair always burned cold whenever he touched him. 

 

But he wants to make absolutely certain, so he asks. “You... you’re still you? You’re not... trying to trick me?”

 

“No, Dean. I promise.” Sam clenches his hand in Dean’s tee-shirt, hoping to give some concrete reassurance. Dean’s head bobs a little, hopefully in assent, before he speaks again.

 

“You were gone. And then he used to pretend to be you. I actually fell for it the first time. He made me think that you’d made your way down there because you’d turned yourself into a demon.... He kept on torturing me, wearing your face. So eventually I figured out it wasn’t really you.

 

“But every once and a while he would wear your face, knew it was what would mess me up the most. That last time was when I finally cracked. I couldn’t take it Sammy, I just couldn’t.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say (how could he possibly say anything that would comfort him after that?) so he wraps his arms tighter around Dean, moves one of his hands so he’s cradling Dean’s head into his shoulder. He buries his face into Dean’s short hair and tries not to cry.

 

Had he not known, or not wanted to know? How many times had Dean woken up screaming, like today, only without him there? How could he have been so stupid to not realize, even after realizing Dean did remember Hell, that obviously he was going to need someone? And he, Sam, had been so fucking oblivious, had gone off again hunting like nothing was wrong, had stopped pushing, had stopped putting Dean first when that was something he had sworn never to stop doing. 

 

And now that he does realize, part of him wishes he still didn’t because it’s killing him to see his older brother in so much pain. Dean was the one he had looked up to since he was old enough to realize what a hero was, the one who loved him unconditionally and whom he loved in return. Now Dean is broken. And it’s his fault. It’s his fault Dean was in Hell in the first place.

 

“But... why?” He finally asks, his voice hesitant and so low that Dean might not have been aware of him talking if not for the deep rumbling he can feel from Sam’s chest. “I, I know you’ve had nightmares before. Why was it different this time?” 

 

Dean tries and fails not to shiver at the feel of Sam’s breath against his scalp. Sam must have realized this and tries to pull back, but Dean grabs the arm wrapped around his chest and holds on tight. 

 

“It, it was because of the blood. I think I bit my cheek or something. That was always how I knew they weren’t real, because I woke up and couldn’t taste it anymore. But this time I could...” He pauses for a second. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize.” Sam snaps out, but not with any real menace. Dean still stiffens, and his next inhale is ragged. He’s grateful that Sam pretends not to notice. 

 

Dean, in his emotionally twisted and shattered state, wishes more than anything that he isn’t so weak. This is something that Sammy’s never supposed to see. Dean’s the strong one, and Sammy is supposed to look to him for comfort. The other way around is just wrong. But it feels so right to have Sam’s arms around him, like he’d wanted for such a long time, even if there’s a little piece of him still saying “It’s a trick. Don’t you dare cave again.” But how is he supposed to resist this?

 

He’s not really sure how long they both sit there, listening to each other’s breathing. Eventually Dean’s breath slows. He can feel Sam’s heartbeat pounding against his shoulder, and his own unconsciously slows to match the rhythm, until they are two in tandem, and he doesn’t know where Sam ends and Dean begins.

 

He doesn’t notice Sam is crying until he feels the wet on his neck. He turns, dislodging Sam’s chin from its resting place in the junction between shoulder and neck, taking his brother’s face in his hands. With a gentleness and a tenderness that’s no longer really a surprise to either of them, he pushes away the tears from under Sam’s eyes.

 

Sam gives a little hiccup, and looks at Dean with these eyes, and Dean feels something in his chest snap, and he thought, “Fuck. This is it.”

 

He’s not sure who initiates the kiss, but before either of them knows how, their lips meet. It’s the softest of touches; Dean’s hands are still cupping Sam’s face, and Sam just sort of sighs against his mouth, and Dean snaps out of it hurriedly.

 

He wipes a hand down his face in frustration, and buries his face in his hands. How could he be so stupid as to reveal those sick desires? “Sorry,” he half moans, and is surprised how   
different his own voice sounds. 

 

Sam pulls Dean’s hands away from his face, and holds them in his own. “Are you really?” he asks quietly. 

 

Dean still doesn’t look at him, but answers. “Of course I am, Sam! I forced myself on you! I’m so so-”

 

“Well I’m not.”

 

“You should be. Wait, what?” Startled, Dean looks up, and Sam is kissing him again, more deeply this time, his hand curls around the back of Dean’s neck and his lips press firmly against his.   
Dean pauses for a second, but he is kissing back before he knows to stop, and all he can taste and smell is Sammy. Sammy is everywhere, and his doubts wash away; Sam is doing what the many showers could not, somehow taking away the blood and the pain and he feels clean, right, for the first time in he knows not when. It’s cheesy as hell, but he doesn’t care.

 

Sam is the first to pull away, but he doesn’t go far, just rests his forehead against Dean’s. “How long?” is all he asks, but Dean gets it. 

 

“Since I went to get you from Stanford,” he admits. “I don’t think you realize how close I was to kissing you when we were fighting.” This has got to be the biggest chick flick moment he’s ever landed himself into, but somehow he doesn’t mind. It’s almost miraculous how much lighter he feels. Like Sam, just by kissing him, has managed to untie a knot that Dean has tried and failed to get himself out of for years. “You?”

 

He thinks he sees Sam blush, but he’s so close he can’t be sure. “Before I left. I was seventeen I think. And you came out of the shower with just a towel, and I just, I mean, something just kind of clicked, you know?” He pauses. “And then I totally freaked out and ran away to Stanford and pushed it all down.” 

 

“This is really fucked up.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, and reflexively he closes his eyes and shudders. “This okay, though?” he whispers, still so unsure. It’s so new, and he’s terrified of making one wrong move that might scare him away, especially after he’s realized how horrible Dean’s nightmares really are. He can’t afford to mess this up. 

 

“Yeah. Just... Can we take this slow? I want... This isn’t just a quick thing for me, Sammy. I, I love you.” He speaks hesitantly, but surely, and Sam knows it’s the truth. He wraps his arms even tighter around Dean, hopes that somehow they can get so close that they become one entity, existing together as two but one. Two minds, one heart.

 

“Yeah, Dean. I know. I do too. Love you, I mean.” This time it’s Dean who kisses first, and there is no hesitation on either end as they drink deep from each other, tongues dancing together and every fiber of their beings are screaming Yes, how right this is, how necessary for existence it is to keep together, to never let go.

 

They do eventually, but neither are more than an arms length apart. They both brush their teeth, and Dean turns away while Sam changes into pajamas. Sam wants to say that it isn’t necessary, but it’s still to early for that. He won’t rush anything. Dean doesn’t want to. Besides, the thought of Dean watching him undressing makes his stomach flip-flop and he thinks that maybe he’s not quite ready for that, either.

 

They both get into the same bed, Sam’s bed, without any sort of verbal agreement. Dean flips the light switch and gets in next to him, still closest to the door, even in the other bed. 

 

The silence is getting pretty awkward, Dean thinks, just as Sam speaks into the dark. “You sure you’re okay?” 

 

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m good.” He doesn’t tell him that he’s still terrified of what he might see when he closes his eyes. 

 

Somehow Sam gets it anyway, and he pulls him in close to his chest, arm around his back, and says, “You wake me up if you get a nightmare, okay?”

 

“How-?”

 

“Dean, I’m your brother, and if I didn’t know how to tell what you’re thinking right now, I’d be a really sucky one.”

 

“You didn’t figure out how I felt, though.” He thinks Dean might be grinning.

 

“Well, true. But you kept that closer than anything. So did I.”

 

Dean sighs huffily against his chest, and the corner of Sam’s mouth twitches up. 

 

“So wake me up if you need me, okay?”

 

“Sure, but I might kick you by accident or something,” he warns awkwardly.

 

“S’okay. Better than not knowing,” Sam mutters sleepily, and Dean realizes how exhausted he is too, both mentally and physically.

 

So he closes he eyes and listens to the soft thump thump of Sam’s healing heartbeat. He could figure out just what to do with this thing with Sam in the morning. Maybe things will be okay,   
he thinks.

 

And if Dean wakes in the night again, Sam is there, as always, to pull him back out. And things are okay.


End file.
